


The Sky Most Holy

by SoDoRoses (FairyChess)



Series: Greek Myths Verse [3]
Category: Cartoon Therapy (Web Series), Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Death, Dionysus and Ariadne Myth, Genderfluid Dr. Emile Picani, Implied Trans Male Pregnancy, M/M, Mentions of Drowning, Mentions of Starvation, Stabbing, Stranded, Trans Remy, he gets better though, how am i the first person to use that tag???, i promise i sleep, im probably the first person to use missy's tag in an age, its greek mythology, mentions of exposure, mortal/immortal relationships, remy bites it, sorry if youre looking just for them, theres any number of ways babies can happen, those last three are barely in it i just think im funny, you can probably ignore it though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyChess/pseuds/SoDoRoses
Summary: Remy does NOT need rescued, thank you so very much, have a nice day.OrRemy’s serial damsel-hood gets worse before it gets better.





	The Sky Most Holy

Remy wakes up when a ray of dappled sunlight through the leaves of tree he’s under spills directly across his eyes. He wasn’t looking forward to being woken up at dawn to get on the boat, but this is even more distasteful. He wonders why Theseus let him sleep so long.

He sits up, blinking gummy eyes until they clear, to an empty beach, no boat or crew in sight.

His heartbeat picks up. Just a twinge of panic, muted by disbelief. He must be not quite awake. He blinks long, shaking himself slightly. When he opens his eyes, nothing changes.

And then the panic gives way to absolute  _rage._

Remy screams, furious and ragged, leaping to his feet and fumbling in his clothes. Everything of value is gone, and all he has is a knife.

This island is small and scrubby – big enough he can’t see the other side from where he is, but only just. There’s some olive trees, berry bushes. He’s not going to starve, at least for while. No animals, and he’s not likely to get mauled by seagulls.

But stuck. Definitely stuck. Remy wants to find Theseus and wring his neck.

He keeps screaming, outrage boiling out of him. He hacks at pieces of driftwood with the half-dull knife, and then stabs at shells until they crack, kicks rocks and detritus all around for hours until he’s sweating and the late afternoon sun is beating down on him.

And then Remy sits down in the shade of the olive tree, and cries.

* * *

After a solid 24 hours of bitter moping, Remy pulls himself together.

He’s getting off this gods-damned rock.

Fuck knows it’s gonna take him a while – he can’t afford to cut down the trees, since they’re the only shelter he has. If he even  _can_ cut down the trees with this trash knife.

But there’s driftwood. And if he can get enough of it he can make a raft, and yeah, maybe he’ll get halfway to the mainland and sink and drown but it’s infinitely preferable to crying his eyes out on this island lamenting that he’s been abandoned by an  _asshole_.

He’s no Echo, no Clytie; he’s not going to waste away to nothing in sorrow. He’s gonna rescue  _himself_ , damn it, and then he’s gonna find Theseus and strangle him with that stupid  _fucking_  thread.

Hence, driftwood. Remy combs the beach, collecting all of it, even the dinky bits than can’t possibly be used for building. He can use them for fire.

Maybe.

If he can figure out how to start a fire with no starter and wet, salted wood.

Seriously,  _fuck Theseus._

He spends days at it, bringing the wood up past the tide line so it can dry properly. He organizes it into piles. He’s good at weaving, so when he’s too tired to haul wood he sits and spins rope out of plant fibers. The days begin to bleed together.

Until gradually, he begins to feel like he’s being…  _watched_.

He doesn’t let on that he’s noticed, and the guest gets increasingly more bold the longer they think Remy is unaware. Remy starts to catch glimpses of them out of the corner of his eye, behind trees and a round corners, hovering. Curious.

Remy waits for the shoe to drop. They never come closer, never say anything. Remy’s getting paranoid – it’s hard to sleep, knowing who-knows-who is somewhere around, watching his every move.

Finally, Remy can’t take it a second longer.

“Are you  _ever_  gonna stop skulking in the underbrush?” he snaps one day, spinning to face them.

One bright blue eye, just peeking around the trunk of a tree, widens. The stretch of cheek underneath it turns scarlet.

Shamefaced, the interloper pops around to the front, smiling sheepishly.

“Hello,” he says, and Remy trying  _real_  hard not be gay at the moment because this guys pretty much a stalker, no matter how adorable he might be.

“Hi,” he says flatly, “Wanna tell me why you’ve been watching me for going on  _weeks_?”

The blush has spread down stalker-guys neck, and he’s clearly mortified.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, “You just…”

He trails off, and Remy raises his eyebrow.

“Yeah, babe, you gonna finish your sentence?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says, a little breathless.

Remy’s first reaction is a flush of embarrassed, flattered heat, and his first instinct is to smirk and move right in on flirting.

His second reaction is for the heat to go out like a doused campfire. His face twists into a scowl.

“I’m guessing you’re here to  _rescue_  me?” he says bitterly.

The guy smiles, looking innocent and open but Remy’s not an  _idiot,_ okay, and he’s learned his lesson when it comes to playing damsel. He’s not making the same mistake twice.

“I can!” he says, “Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere with  _you_ ,” Remy spits, and he feels a twist of shame when the guy’s expression shutters, hurt. “I don’t need  _rescued,_  sugar, I’m perfectly capable of getting off this island myself. No  _thank you_ ,”

The guy actually flinches, and Remy really does feel bad now. But he seems to recover pretty quick, his smile a little brittle.

“Sorry for assuming,” he says, and yeah that’s some pretty spectacular guilt Remy’s got brewing in his chest.

Remy turns away, hot around his neck with shame. But the time he looks back, opening his mouth for a gruff apology, the guy’s gone.

Remy bites the inside of his cheek. So much for that.

* * *

Except the guy? He comes back.

Remy never sees his boat coming, no matter where he is on the island. He’s at least comforted by the fact that if this guy can show up so often, this island can’t be that far from populated land. It’s a small comfort.

Blue-eyes doesn’t seem to hold a grudge for Remy being maybe-possibly-a-huge-dick to him in their first conversation. He’s bubbly and smiley and just generally exuding toothache-inducing sweetness.

It’s a  _problem._

The first time he comes back after their little spat he holds up his hands, non-threatening.

“No rescuing,” he says, gentle, like he’s soothing a skittish horse, and Remy’s previous embarrassment returns ten-fold, “Promise. I just- I just wanna keep you company. It’s lonely out here, and it’s not good  for hu- for people to be alone,”

Remy works his jaw back and forth, suspicious.

“Well, if you’re hanging around I gotta call you something,” he says.

Blue-eyes tilts his head, considering. He looks a little nervous.

“You can call me Em,”

And Em? Will not go away.

He offers to help. Once, carrying wood. Once, starting the fire for the night. Once to sharpen the knife, once to hold the other end of the rope taut while Remy weaves it, once to fix a tear in Remy’s clothes. Every time, Remy says no.

And every time, Em never asks to help with that particular thing again.

Instead, he talks. Talks about plays he’s seen, the characters and their escapades and their relationships. Remy doesn’t understand most of it, doesn’t listen to quite a bit of it. He keeps getting distracted by the way Em’s whole face scrunches up when he smiles. Em smiles a lot.

Remy finds himself forming opinions on Em’s shows, though he keeps them to himself. Sometimes Em gets particularly excited, and Remy finds himself in a daze, watching with rapt attention, his work limp in his hands, abandoned in his distraction.

He goes back to the rope. If Em notices, he never says so.

* * *

Remy sees Em arrive one day.

It’s not on a boat.

He’s on the other side of the island, desperate for more decent-sized driftwood. The seasons are changing; soon the sea will be too dangerous to pass through, and there will be nothing to eat. Remy’s running out of time.

Em shows up in a pillar of light so bright it doesn’t even register in Remy’s eyes – he just whites out entirely, his head splitting with pain until he slams his eyes shut and covers his face with his hands to boot.

He’s a little dazed, and his ears are ringing, so he doesn’t see or hear Em coming toward him. He does feel him, though, feel the gentle but frantic touches to his arms, fretting and anxious.

Remy shakes him off.

“You’re a god,” he croaks. He’s blinking rapidly, vision slowly returning.

Em looks like he always does, but it’s not comforting now. He looks apologetic and embarrassed.

“Yes,” he says, softly.

“Em,” Remy says, working it over in his mouth, “Em as in Emile. God of Madness,”

Em – Emile – winces.

“I’m the God of the  _Mentally Ill_ ,” he says, pointed but gentle. Remy doesn’t bother asking him to explain the difference.

Because this honestly makes so much more sense than a lone fisherman spending hours with a castaway on what amounts to a glorified mound of sand and rocks. Gods eat damsels up. They love being heroes. They love being heroes at the expense of mortals even more.

_You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen_.

Gods live a long time. Emile’s gonna see plenty more people, long after Remy’s gone.

“I can still get you out of here,” says Emile, and Remy tries his best to keep a straight face. “I can take you anywhere you want to go,”

“I still don’t need rescued,” Remy spits. Emile’s face crumples, and he nods.

“Alright,” he says softly, “Alright. I’m- I’m sorry,”

Remy blinks, and Emile’s gone.

He doesn’t come back.

* * *

The raft is ramshackle and fragile and hardly sea-worthy. It’s junk, frankly, and worse, it’s  _dangerous_  junk, but never let it be said that Remy’s not as stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid.

Several times – when the waves throw him overboard and he barely clings to the wood by his fingertips, when it capsizes and he spends what feels like hours but must be only desperate minutes trying to right it, when dark, ominous clouds gather in the distance and Remy swallows wondering exactly what it feels like to be struck by lightning – Remy considers praying.

Emile would come. Remy thinks. Maybe.

Remy doesn’t, mostly out of pride. He said he’d get himself off that island. He’s got something to prove, even if it’s only to himself.

And the other reason is that a small part of him is afraid he’ll pray, and no one will answer.

And then there’s land. Real land, with sand and stone, yes, but Remy can see green and hills and the shoreline stretches far in both directions. He let’s out a jubilant shout.

He leaps off the raft in the shallows, sloshing his way up onto the beach, still laughing. He thinks he might be just on the edge of hysteria.

He looks up, holds out his hands, and prays.

_Emile_

No titles, no epithets. Remy’s not asking for the God. He’s just asking for Em.

White light, which Remy closes his eyes to just in time to avoid a headache. He blinks them open, and Emile is giving him a soft smile. It’s wary, though, a little hurt.

“You did it,” Emile says, “You rescued yourself,”

“Damn right I did,” says Remy, stalking forward, and Em’s eyes go wide just as Remy reaches him and drags him forward by the front of his clothes.

Emile kisses back, hesitant and sweet. But Remy presses closer, biting Emile’s lip, and when he gasps Remy licks into his mouth.

Emile  _melts,_ turning to fiery, molten gold, pushing Remy down into the sand and groaning against his lips. His voice is poetry and music and Remy wants to pull each note out of him and swallow every single one.

So that’s exactly what he does.

* * *

Remy knows he’s fucked.

He knows he’s capital-I capital-L In Love with a god, and everybody knows that never ends well. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, but that doesn’t mean he’s not relishing every single moment he’s got.

Because when he’s actually  _with_  Emile, it doesn’t feel temporary. He doesn’t feel like a plaything or a distraction. Emile looks at him like Remy’s the one between the two of them who’s divine, who’s heavenly and perfect and flawless. It makes Remy want to kiss him, so usually he does.

But when Emile’s not around, it’s easier to be rational. It’s easier to accept the inevitable. Remy’s not even that upset about, he thinks, or at least not as upset as he thinks most people would be. He’d do it again, wouldn’t change anything, even if he loses Emile tomorrow.

It throws him off a little, though, when Emile wants to  _marry_  him.

It’s… kind of unprecedented. There have been Goddesses that married mortal men, Remy knows, but he’s never heard of a God doing so. But Emile’s always kind of blurred that line anyway.

And Remy… Remy  _really_  wants to marry Emile.

So he says yes. And Emile gives him a crown, and casts it into the sky and Remy is so,  _so_  in love and he  _is_  upset. He is upset because this  _is_  temporary, Emile’s going to get bored and even if he doesn’t he’s  _immortal_  and he’ll go on long after Remy and forget, forget, forget, and Remy will be a footnote in someone else’s story and eventually he’ll be nothing.

And then they have a  _baby_  and Remy  _hardcore_  panics because this is the beginning of the end right? The lifespan of the mortal parent of a demigod is measured in months, not years.

But Emile builds them a house, and Euthymius (Remy calls him Immy, because he was obviously suffering from temporary insanity when he named him to begin with) grows up and toddles and nothing happens. It’s like their joy doesn’t have an upper limit; it just keeps growing.

And then there’s little Nestor, and sweet Melissa, and they grow up into Nessy and Missy, and everything’s just perfect. It’s nuts. It’s clearly too good to be true.

But Remy wakes up one morning and turns over to kiss Emile awake, and realizes he’s not worried. He’s not waiting for the end. He’s just happy. He feels like he’ll be happy forever.

And when Emile sighs himself into consciousness and kisses Remy back, Remy believes he will.

* * *

It’s an accident. It’s nobody’s fault.

It’s just some kids, some teenage boys, messing around playing on the edge of town. Maybe they shouldn’t have been so close. Maybe they should have been using practice javelins instead of sharpened ones. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Fate is fate. Remy’s got a thread, just like everybody else.

He’s grateful that at least it doesn’t actually hurt. Probably shock, but Remy will take what he can get.

He’s  _not_  grateful that Nessy and Missy are right there, watching him bleed out, both of them wailing, and Immy’s run for their other parent, but Emile’s the God of a very  _specific_  kind of health. He can’t do much for a javelin to the gut.

He comes though, and Remy relaxes anyway, his vision all blue-blue-blue eyes. Emile cups Remy’s face, shouting, tears streaming down his face, and Remy knows it’s over.

“Remy,  _Remy_ , wait, wait,  _no-_ ”

And then it’s just black.

* * *

The underworld is… lonely.

Remy has no mortal family. His parents disowned him when he betrayed them for Theseus, and he’s spent so long with Emile that all his friends are immortal as well. He knows nobody in Elysium.

He desperately tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that this? This is the best possible outcome. It’s leagues better than what most mortal consorts get. Emile stayed with Remy until Remy’s very last breath – literally. Remy will go down with Hyacinthus, with Cyrene and Enarete, mortals blessed to spend their whole lives with the gods they loved and then eternity in Elysium.

Because Remy’s never done anything particularly heroic in his life – he certainly didn’t earn this. He’s only here because of Em.

He’s made a very short, very  _lucky_  list. He should be grateful.

He’s not. He never will be, and he knows it.

* * *

The sun is always shining. The sky is always clear. There is no work to be done, and time passes like a river deceptively still, the water so clear you can’t see the current.

Remy sits, and he watches the sky, and he waits for nothing.

But  _nothing_  is not what happens.

He hears someone come up behind his chair, and he absently wonders who could possibly want to talk to him. He has no glorious tales to tell.

(He has so many glorious tales to tell. The joyous shout Emile made when Immy’s first word was “Papa,” that Remy’s wedding crown is going to soar through the heavens forever, that Remy has so much love to give and was given so much in return. But these are not the stories people tell in Elysium, so Remy says nothing.)

His guest steps around in front of him, and Remy doesn’t need to breathe anymore, which is good, because he couldn’t possibly inhale right now even if he did.

Emile is smiling but his eyes are little wild, the whites showing and barely rimmed with red. He kneels in front of Remy, and Remy should probably say something but his brain feels scrambled.

Emile takes Remy’s hand, kissing the knuckles and then pressing them to his own forehead. Emile’s hands are shaking.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, his voice quavering, “But I’m here to rescue you,”

Remy’s probably got some kind of dumbfounded expression on his face, and he can’t make his mouth move or his throat produce noise. Emile looks up then, desperate and pleading.

“Only if you want me too, though,” he chokes out.

Remy’s choking up too, and when he manages to force sound out of himself, instead of a profound declaration of love or some other sentimental monologue he just starts losing it giggling.

Emile grins, red-rimmed and gentle, and Remy’s nodding and cupping Emile’s face and pulling him up.

“I am so on board with this jailbreak, babe, you have no idea,” Remy laughs, wet and rasping.

Emile’s face absolutely glows, and then it really  _is_  glowing, and Remy closes his eyes as Emile kisses him fiercely, all sunlight and shine.

And then Remy feels flushed, and his own blood burns copper to rose to bright, searing gold.

Remy’s eyes flutter back open, and he can  _see_  Emile now, really see him, in way that would have boiled him alive before. Emile is incandescent and formless, impossibly radiant, and every single atom of him is gleaming with how much he loves, loves,  _loves_  Remy.

And he can see, too, the moment Emile realizes Remy matches him exactly, both of them identical in their brilliance.

They bleed together, light and love and  _warmth_ , and they leave the underworld hand in hand, Emile clinging like he never intends to let go.

Remy doesn’t mind. He doesn’t either.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [ tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors ](%E2%80%9Dtulipscomeinallsortsofcolors.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) over on tumblr and you have to @ me in your remile content its The Law

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